


pernicious

by mnabokov



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Freeform, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the words sound fake, artificial, like someone shoved the line down Peter’s throat only to have him regurgitate it again over the front of Harry’s silvery suit, staining the sharp creases of his sleeves and spilling onto black black dress shoes. Harry seized the counterfeit, recognized it like a shark recognizes blood, and he clung on desperately, holding the ersatz with both of his fists the way he held Peter’s sweater in his hands, squeezed the words in his palms until they dripped through his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pernicious

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during The Amazing Spider-Man 2 when Harry asks Peter to get him Spider-Man's blood. Tension ensues.

Harry Osborn's skin-tight v-neck did unspeakable things to Peter Parker.  
  
The black hugged his lithe frame so Peter could see every breath Harry took, could see Harry's ribs quiver and clack against one another as he sucked in the cold, stale air of his office through clenched teeth. Peter stood silently in the doorway, his heart thumping erratically somewhere behind his navel and his eyes wide as his eyes raked over his best friend.  
  
Retroviral hyperplasia had taken its toll on the youngest Osborn: crimson laced the whites of his eyes, juxtaposed to the piercing intensity of blue irises. The shadows thrown on his face hung heavily in sharp relief, mottled underneath his fluttering eyelids and painted below sunken cheekbones. Veins bulged with venom-filled blood, running down his neck and wrapping around delicate wrists, splitting off over the backs of Harry’s fists.  
  
Harry’s skin was smooth and pale, glistening slightly where Harry's clavicles and neck were exposed. Pale save for a single blemished patch – scabbed over and tinged with green – slapped onto the side of his otherwise uniformly white neck.  
  
It was admittedly ugly, a searing reminder of the Osborn curse branded into Harry's pulsing flesh.  
  
White knuckles clutched a square tumbler in a viselike grip; golden vodka threatened to spill over the sides of the glass as small hands trembled but Harry paid no attention to his drink. Instead, his eyes fixed on Peter, dark pupils dilated and expression unforgiving.  
  
“I’m dying,”  
  
Harry half-choked, half-spit out the words, desperation and fear and helplessness wadded into a messy mouthful of words –  
  
And suddenly everything made sense.  
  
(I’m dying,)  
  
Again and again, echoing in Peter’s brain, over and over in a whispered chant –  
  
 _I’m dying,_  
  
Again. The two words tumbled over Harry’s quivering lip, fell through the air, filling the nothingness that separated Peter from Harry, clattered onto meticulously shining marble tiles with a rasp and a whisper –  
  
“I’m dying Peter,”  
  
Peter heard the spoken words. But he had also heard what Harry had really said, buried underneath sorrow and regret and sentiment was _help me_.  
  
Peter knew Harry Osborn. He knew that no descendent of the Osborne bloodline ever asked for help. But _this_ – this was the closest Peter Parker had heart Harry come to stoop so low as to asking for help.  
  
Desperation was etched deep into the hard lines of Harry’s face, written into the straight angles of his elbows and knees, burning in his clear eyes.  
  
Soft footfalls filled the hanging silence. Harry had stepped closer to Peter, the long lines of his body coiling and uncoiling, furling and unfurling as the older boy slowly closed the distance between their bodies with a leisurely, loping grace.  
  
“Spider-Man,” Harry all but hissed then, his mood suddenly swinging, the harsh curves of his mouth quickly tilting into a sneer. He spat out the words in a venomous way, as if they burned in his mouth.  His muscles tensed and knees locked as he jolted to a stop a few feet away from Peter, the cool aura he had pulled around himself vanishing.  
  
“Only Spider-Man’s blood will save me, and you – “ Harry’s face tipped to the side to match his leer, eyes searing as he remained fixated on Peter.  
  
“You Peter Parker, can get that for me.”  
  
“Harry – “ the name died hoarse and croaky on  Peter’s dry lips, unfamiliar and obtuse as it rolled off Peter’s heavy tongue.  
  
“Peter!” Harry nearly spat, striding forward angrily so that a mere breadth separated Harry and Peter’s faces; hands lunged out blindly, fists grabbing clumsily, fingers finding purchase against Peter’s chest. Peter’s sweater was too tight, seemed to constrict him as it bunched underneath Harry’s shaking hands.  
  
 _Peter!_  
  
And Peter stumbled backwards from the sudden momentum – arms flailing until they anchored on Harry’s shoulders – found his backside smack flat against a marble pillar and Harry Osborn’s breath billowing hotly around his neck; Peter could feel Harry’s thin figure trembling, chest heaving and ribs shuddering against his own.  
  
“I’m dying and you need to save me, you need to save me,” Harry rasped heavily into Peter’s ear.  
  
He was too close, his body heat spread over Peter – too close – and a strong thigh slipped in between Peter’s legs – “ _Peter_ ,” – and Peter’s hands were sweating on the grey shoulder pads of the Prada suit, fingers itching from the scruffy material –  
  
Harry’s face was inching closer to his, so close Peter had to push Harry’s shoulders backwards to prevent the other boy from coming any closer – “Please, Harry – “  
  
Peter sounded lame even to himself and Harry was pressing so close, so hard –  
  
“ _Peter.”_  
  
The desperation was evident in his voice, and Harry’s pupils were blown, eyes glassy and shimmering; brown hair fell out of its place and hung over his forehead.  
  
“I can’t – “  
  
It was hard for Peter to choke out those words, hard for his throat to move, hard for his lips to form the syllables that Peter knew Harry did not want to hear. His throat was parched, his tongue uncomfortably itchy in a mouth suddenly too dry. It hurt to swallow but hurt even more for Peter to say quietly, “It’ll kill you Harry, you know that,”  
  
And the words sound fake, artificial, like someone shoved the line down Peter’s throat only to have him regurgitate it again over the front of Harry’s silvery suit, staining the sharp creases of his sleeves and spilling onto black black dress shoes.  
  
Immediately Harry’s eyes narrowed until they were angry slits.  
  
He seized the counterfeit, recognized it like a shark recognizes blood, and Harry clung on desperately, holding the ersatz with both of his fists the way he held Peter’s sweater in his hands, squeezed the words in his palms until they dripped through his fingers.  
  
“Bullshit,” he hissed, hands shaking so hard now Peter’s neck threatened to give in to whiplash. “That is _bullshit_.”  
  
Harry’s words echoed in his empty office, bouncing off linoleum tiles and white-washed walls. The resentment so evident in Harry’s voice seeped into Peter, found its way under nails and under skin into veins where Peter’s burning blood churned with something like remorse.  
  
“Harry…”  
  
Harry’s name felt soft in the back of Peter’s throat, drifted over the tip of his tongue as it hovered in front of Harry’s face mockingly.  
  
“Don’t do that to me!” the Osborn heir snarled, lips twisted into a despotic curve over clenched teeth and dark eyebrows furrowed together.  
  
“Don’t feel sorry – “ There was a pause, a hitched and hurried breath, before a weaker “ Don’t do what you always do…”   
  
Harry’s voice cracked as he trailed off, eyes misting in equal parts fury and sentiment.  
  
For the first time since Peter had entered the Osborn office, Harry’s eyes lowered, and from Peter’s height, he could see wet eyelashes scratching pale cheeks as Harry’s eyelids drooped. “I’m not weak,” came softly from somewhere below Peter’s chin. “Don’t need your sympathy,” uttered as an afterthought, Harry’s lips barely moving, chin tucked into his chest.  
  
Peter breathed softly, his breath ruffling Harry’s hair, his palms slid down to Harry’s sides, pulling the older boy closer. A pair of small sweaty hands remained fisted into the front of Peter’s fading sweater, and Harry choked as Peter pulled him into an embrace.  
  
“I hate you,” Harry croaked into Peter’s chest, wet seeping through the layers Peter wore and dampening bare skin. A silent sob came from Harry but Peter remained quiet, holding Harry as he shook with grief.  
  
“I hate you,” and “I’m dying,” tumbled from Harry’s mouth, hitting the stain accumulated on Peter’s sweater, oozed into Peter’s chest where it resounded heavily in his ribcage. Still, Peter held Harry, cradled his body and instinctively slid up into his hair, fingers entwining with gold strands in an achingly familiar way.  
  
 _I’m sorry_ , Peter tried to whisper. But the words lodged themselves into his gut, anchored down with guilt, and as his lips moved they died in his mouth.  
  
_fin_


End file.
